Stopping Smoking

or not

I stopped smoking, I think.  I know I’m serious this time because I don’t sneak one or two out of my daughter’s pack of American Spirits. I don’t pick up a good butt I might find on the sidewalk or in someone else’s ashtray.  I’m not cheating. Haven’t smoked in almost a whole week. I was enjoying the hell out of smoking at the age at 83, partly because I love to smoke, and partly because it felt like thumbing my nose at the torrent of expert advice about health these days, especially as you grow old. All this irritating discussion about nutrition and exercise and stopping everything you’ve always enjoyed.

     Fuck that. I like figuring it out for myself.  For one thing, I never got over thinking that smoking was cool. Still haven’t. But alas, reality is catching up with me. I am always tired, and at night the sound of my breathing, both squeaky and hoarse, keeps me awake. It finally occured to me that I might have more energy and breathe more easily, as well as save some serious money if I quit. So I did. Bought a box of nicotine chewing gum. I was surprised to find the gum actually works. I keep them in their box on the windowsill with a pair of scissors inside. It’s hard work prying them out of their hermetically sealed foil covered wrappers. But I don’t have the urge to light up. I don’t miss inhaling, or having fun exhaling. I don’t really miss smoking at all. Not even when confronted with all those everyday things that go so perfectly with a cigarette, coffee, of course; chocolate anything; a difficult conversation; a long car ride--although I don’t drive farther than a mile into town for groceries., because I am afraid I’m not paying enough attention to avoid an accident, or fear that I’m not, which is the same thing.

old woman witha ccigarettento town for groceries because I don’t pay enough attention, or I’m afraid I don’t, which amounts to the same thing.

What I miss is how smoking punctuates a day, adds a comma, when you need one, or maybe a wordless exclamation point when someone you aren’t fond of is guaranteed to look down on you for your weakness and be annoyed by the smell of smoke you might blow in their direction. I  got excited thinking about semi-colons and parentheses but it’s really only commas that smoking provides. In a long day, commas are welcome, and at your disposal if you smoke. I will do the dishes after I finish this cigarette. Or I won’t, I’ll do them in the morning, after  a cigarette.

I once wrote a prose poem about climbing a mountain with a man I found quite attractive, and all the way to the top there was no punctuation. Being interviewed by scholars for a book about writing that included that poem, I was asked how come I wrote sixty-three words without a single comma. The answer was obvious to me, it was a long trek up and there were no places to stop and rest and therefore no commas.  When we got to the top, there was some punctuation. He was very appealing. My God, it must have been forty years ago. He didn’t smoke, but he didn’t complain that I did. Oh dear. Here comes a question mark.  Where’s that fucking gum.

     Hey, girl. Relax. Come January 2025, there will be so much smoke blown by so many Mindless Magas  we will all be gagging in no time. Maybe I will light up and die my own way. Maybe I won’t. Gonna be fucked either way.